The Pirate Diaries
by miettelaenvie
Summary: Something I promised to write about Sherlock's younger years.
1. Chapter 1

Every third Thursday, they went to their father's grave. It'd been five years since he died and today was the anniversary of his death, which meant they had to go, despite the news reports of bad weather on its way. Mycroft was holding the umbrella he'd taken from their father's office, the black one, and Sherlock stood at the edge of the grave, a shoe kicking at the dirt there.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, looking out from under the open umbrella. It was starting to drizzle, and the younger boy's hair was already starting to free itself from the constraints of the gel that had been applied. Mycroft sighed. He could already see curls at the base of Sherlock's neck.

"Mum will worry," He said, and the younger boy shrugged. Mycroft offered out the arm that held his brother's coat and Sherlock shook his head at it, squatting to the ground as the rain began to fall.

They stayed like that for some time, Mycroft able to see Sherlock's mouth moving, talking to the ground, the tombstone, the air. He turned his head, allowing his brother some privacy. Mycroft liked knowledge, he liked being sure of things, but this was something he could do without knowing. He knew better, but Sherlock was still young enough to find comfort in such things. He checked his watch after a few minutes, calling for his brother again and Sherlock stood up and walked under the umbrella, soaked through and through.

"Do you want your coat?"

Sherlock just shook his head, his eyes cast downward.

They walked out of the graveyard, making their way home. The rain had picked up and Mycroft only slightly regretted not having a car take them back and forth, but it was their tradition and traditions must be kept. Sherlock began to shake violently, and Mycroft stopped him. "Put your jacket on."

Sherlock slid the coat on, still shaking, and Mycroft sighed, looking him over. There was a chill in the air and it was damp even under the umbrella. "We'll be home soon." It wasn't anything Sherlock didn't know, but it was easier to say than "I'm sorry" or "It's my fault." His train of thought was broken when Sherlock took a step forward, buried his face in Mycroft's shirt and began to cry.

* * *

><p>When they got home they went around to the back door, stripping their coats and shoes off and dumping them into a heap on the floor. "I'll pick them up later," Mycroft had said, leaving Sherlock shivering in the back hallway as he retrieved dry clothes and a towel for the younger boy. When he returned, he ushered his brother into the bathroom, giving him the dry clothes and towel and a reminder not to leave his wet clothes on the floor. Sherlock still hadn't said a word since they left the graveyard, and while it wasn't unusual for him to be silent after their trips every third Thursday, Mycroft still worried. Mycroft always worried.<p>

He set to making tea while Sherlock changed and when the younger boy stepped out of the bathroom, Mycroft took his bundle of wet clothes and Sherlock received a cup of tea and orders to get into bed. The older boy shook his head at the curls drooping into the blue eyes that were staring at him and he gave a strict nod of his head towards the stairs. Watching the little form shuffling down the hall, he sighed, setting to cleaning up the damp clothes.

When he opened Sherlock's door an hour later, the younger boy was fast asleep under the covers, pale skin flushed with heat. Mycroft smiled, shutting the door silently and made his way to his own room, changing into pyjamas. As he crawled into bed, he found a note on his pillow that said very simply, "Thank you."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock had always wanted to be a pirate. It was the one wild notion Mycroft couldn't shake him of, no matter how hard the older boy tried. Mycroft didn't mind it so much, appeasing his own continual worries of societal acceptance of his little brother with an annual "He'll grow out of it next year." He'd watch the younger boy burst into sudden warfare in empty rooms, places he knew Sherlock was sure no one would find him, ridicule him. The teasing from other children hadn't started for the most part, a wary look or a muttered remark, always silenced by Mycroft's glare, something he had learned from their mother. He was always taking after their mother, Sherlock after their father, that carefully planned reckless abandon one of their father's trademarks.

The summer after Sherlock's eighth birthday led to a surgical procedure on one of his eyes—nothing too serious, but it did leave him with an eye patch for a number of weeks, which only fueled the young boy's dreams of piracy. Sherlock took to wearing striped shirts and shorts, which looked at odds with Mycroft's casual button downs and slacks even on the best day, and took to embarking on grand scavenger hunts, the purpose of which Mycroft never could ascertain. His brother never actually searched for gold or money or even a key, the things that all the pirates had sought out in the stories he'd had Mycroft read to him; he'd end up with feathers or a piece of tape covered in fingerprints, little odd mementos that he carried around with him.

One morning he brought a brightly colored feather to the table and as he settled in for breakfast, their father had looked at the feather, a confused smile on his face. "What's that from?" he'd asked, and Mycroft cringed internally when Sherlock stared back at their father, eyes bright as he explained the search he'd went on the day before. Their father had laughed, asked where his treasure was if he'd went on a treasure hunt, and Sherlock's brow furrowed as he twisted the stem of the feather between his fingers. "This _is_ the treasure," the younger boy replied, quiet for a moment before explaining how the neighbor's parrot had gone missing the day before and how he'd uncovered the trail leading, quite obviously, to the stray cat their daughter had been leaving food out for. The feather had been one of the few feathers left, and the only form of compensation he'd be likely to receive.

"_Obviously_," their father had said, laughing. "You sound more the part of a detective than pirate, Sherlock." Sherlock's mouth formed a pout and he spent the rest of the day refusing to answer to anything other than "The Pirate, Sherlock." The summer months passed and Mycroft watched with a careful eye as his younger brother solved puzzles, figured out riddles, sailed toy ships in the high seas encapsulated in the bath tub. The winter before Sherlock's eighth birthday, all of it stopped.

Their father died suddenly, the news waiting for them when they arrived home from school one day. Mycroft busied himself in taking his place, making sure their mother was okay and that the family was financially sound; then there was the funeral to plan. The eldest Holmes brother spent what little free time he had watching his brother, watching the bright little boy invested in being a scourge of the open seas slowly dim. The striped shirts stopped being worn, folded into a dresser drawer that was never opened, and Sherlock spent his days taking books from the room that served as their father's office, devouring medical textbooks, scientific manuals, anything he could find. He favored the detective stories their father had collected, Mycroft saw as he peeked into his younger brother's room one afternoon.

"How is piracy, Sherlock?" The younger boy hadn't even looked up from the book he was reading, instead flipping a page. "I don't want to be a pirate anymore." he replied, and Mycroft pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, thinking. Before he could say anything else, Sherlock continued. "Being a pirate isn't fun anymore. I want to be a detective."


End file.
